Melissa Krut, Peace Corps Volunteer, Lutsk

If four thousand six hundred miles is not too far, three miles is not too far.

If ninety-eight years is not too old, thirty-one years is not too old.

Everything is relative, including my grandmother.

On the morning of May 5, I planned to run. I planned to run without stopping, so that I could tell you ‘On the morning of May 5, I ran for three miles without stopping.’ It’s too early for watermelon, which was my post-run motivation the last time [also the first time] I vaguely trained for a 10K.

On the morning of May 5, I ran for three miles without stopping. This is the truth. The fact that I motivated myself by the thought of your approval, does that make it less true? Absolutely not.

I am not a runner. While there’s no need for a huge philosophical blow-up here, it’s true that I have based a major belief in my life on action creating reality: If you write, you are a writer. Still, I am struggling to run, and struggling even more to see myself as a runner. Is it because I’m 31? Is it too late for me to start imagining that I’m a runner? The idea of the mental and personal nature of running appeals to me immensely. It’s a romantic idea: independence in motion, wind in one’s face.

On the morning of May 5, I slept in, I ate a banana, and I ran for three miles without stopping. People on the street stared at me, talked about me, didn’t even notice me. The sun shone, not too bright. Down Vidrodghennya and back.

Getting migraines after running is another sign that I might not be a runner. Independence may be mental, but wind in one’s face requires the rude mechanics of a physical body. Making an effort to avoid taking more medicine than necessary, I have received such medical advice as the suggestion to dunk my head in a bucket of cold water immediately after running. I take a shower instead, extra-cool on my head and face, willing the blood vessels to take it easy.

A chat with my mom, first by video on Skype. Mine works, hers doesn’t. Then reverse. Then we talk without video. They’re on their way to my grandmother’s birthday, checking in with me to get ready for my dad’s visit to Ukraine at the end of the month. Then my dad’s up and awake and hello-saying. Then they’re off, seven hours behind but moving forward.

The sun presses hard against the window and my head is going wrong. I take the ‘try these’ meds, something mild. A little computer work, but nothing is accomplished. The day twists away from me.

The blinds close out the juicy part of a beautiful day, some pips squeezing through. Migraine medicine anyway, fold myself into the couch and cover out the light.

Time passes, I sleep. I wake, weak: a caffeine-heavy dose working its way through the pillows on top of my head, demanding more be made of this day.

Beets are the answer. This much should be obvious. Warm earth smell boils through my apartment, the air outside cools. I cautiously raise the blinds, lean back, drink more water, and more water. This is what to do.

The phone rings: my dad. The predetermined ‘when people who aren’t there can talk to Grandma’ slot matching poorly with the time zone difference, I’ve been granted an early chat opportunity.

“You sound good,” says my grandma, Sophia. She is now 98 years old. Her parents were born in Ukraine. Her husband was Ukrainian. She has lived in America her whole life, and she is 98 years old. How would her life have been different if her parents had stayed in Ivano-Frankivska oblast? If her husband John, Ivan, had stayed in Lvivska oblast?

“I am good, Grandma,” I tell her. It’s true.

We talk for about two minutes. She tells me her kids have outdone themselves with the party arrangements, I tell her that I’ll be home in the summer. I tell her that I have lots to tell her about. She’s looking forward to it.

This is the part where I pull it all together, where I tell you that my grandma has worked hard to become 98, and I can’t complain at all about being 31. This is where I tell you that I’ve lived for more than two and a half years being 4600 miles away from my family, that running 3 miles, 6 miles can be done.

I only have a few months left in Ukraine, and I can tell you I can’t imagine what it will be like to suddenly shift back to the US. I have no profound and elegant metaphor to tell you what I’ve learned and what I’ll carry with me, what I’ll tell people who ask about my time in Ukraine, about working, about running, about living.

Was it hard? It’s all relative. Is it possible? Absolutely.